


the stars were made for falling

by delayofgame



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-2018 NHL Season, Boston Bruins, Hero Worship, M/M, Power Imbalance, Unrequited, a lil bit of religious symbolism, now featuring a post-trade epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-09-25 23:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17131082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delayofgame/pseuds/delayofgame
Summary: The problem is, Ryan treats Patrice like he hung the moon and stars, his devotion obvious in his awed words and reverential gaze. In the naiveté of his youth he treats every word that graces Patrice’s lips as gospel. He trusts him, unwavering and unquestioning andvulnerable.Even for all the mentions of his alleged sainthood, Patrice can't bear being worshiped.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S FINALLY DONE! i have been working on this fic for so long it's kind of embarrassing but here you guys go.
> 
> i've been thinking about [this](https://weei.radio.com/blogs/sara-civian/ryan-donato-still-cant-believe-he-gets-play-bruins) a lot and for some reason i made it sad.
> 
> i truly hope that patrice doesn’t come off as sleazy or taking advantage in this fic, he’s just trying to do his alternate-captainly duties and he's too nice for his own good.
> 
> this is a work of fiction and does not represent real thoughts/feelings/actions of those mentioned. this takes place in a universe in which casual sex between teammates is not abnormal.

They’re on the road in St. Louis the first time it happens.

Ryan scores; it’s his second career goal in his second career game, and it may have been on a lucky bounce off an official but there’s no luck in the way the puck comes off of his stick, nothing fortuitous about a shot like that. 

They end up losing the game. It doesn’t really matter, because they get a point, the point that they needed to clinch a playoff spot. The feeling in the locker room is a celebratory one. Someone has allowed Anders to take control of the music, and he puts on a song with a thumping beat that seems to make the walls shake. 

Ryan seeks out Patrice immediately. He’s still in his pants and socks and skates but without his shoulder pads, his black compression shirt clinging to his lean torso. His short hair is sticking up as if he’d just put his finger in an electrical socket.

“Nice goal,” Patrice says, pulling the tape off of his socks and stripping them off. 

Ryan grins. “Thanks.” 

He keeps standing in front of Patrice as if he has something else to say. This isn’t odd behavior for him, strictly speaking; he has the tendency to gravitate toward Patrice in group situations. Not atypical for starstruck rookies. There’s something different about his attentiveness tonight, though, something underneath his expectant gaze that gives Patrice pause.

“Want me to compliment you some more?” Patrice jokes to break the silence between them that seems so heavy despite all of the background noise. 

“I think I remember you telling me I’d get _rewarded handsomely_ if I kept up scoring,” Ryan says. It seems on the surface that he’s reciprocating Patrice’s jest, but there’s something honest about his expression. 

Patrice raises his eyebrows. He only vaguely remembers saying that. “And clinching a playoff berth isn’t enough of a reward for you? What else could you possibly want?”

“I don’t know.” Ryan runs his tongue along his lower lip. “I have a few ideas.”

It’s simultaneously suggestive and uncertain, as if he’s testing the waters, pushing to see how Patrice will react. 

“Are you asking me to bring you back to my room?” Patrice asks. 

It’s clearly not the answer Ryan was expecting, because his eyes go as big as saucers. Patrice swears he can hear Ryan’s unsteady intake of breath even through the music and the voices bouncing around the locker room.

Ryan seems to be searching for a response, and finally he settles on: “Are you gonna say yes?” 

This… is not how Patrice imagined this night would go. He isn't opposed to the idea, however. Ryan looks in equal parts hopeful and shy, his desire cutting straight through the clear attempt to maintain a neutral expression. Patrice would be lying if he said he didn’t find Ryan attractive; something about the pink curve of his lips and his downturned eyes and the way his his skin glows when he sweats. Patrice would also be lying if he said he’d never given this a passing thought before. Actually pursuing it, however, is a line that Patrice hasn’t crossed in quite a while. 

“Please,” Ryan says, sweet and honest and suddenly _bold_.

Patrice sighs. “At least take your skates off first.”

Ryan nods and scrambles to comply, nearly tripping himself as he makes his way back to his locker. Patrice silently asks himself what he’s getting into.

 

///

 

So that’s how Patrice ends up with the rookie standing in his hotel room, dressed in a suit that’s just a touch too big for him. A blush sits high on Ryan’s cheeks. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, twisting them together nervously in front of him.

“Relax, Ryan,” Patrice says, trying to soothe him a bit. 

Ryan stops fidgeting. “Sorry.”

Clearly whatever shred of bravado he had in the locker room was lost somewhere between the arena and the hotel. His hesitation is troubling. 

“If you don’t want to do this anymore, just tell me,” Patrice says. “You won’t hurt my feelings. I promise.”

“No, no, it’s not that.” Ryan stumbles over his words in an attempt to get them out as quickly as possible. “I’m just still trying to… process. It’s kind of insane that I’m actually here, doing this, right now.”

Patrice narrows his eyes. “Hmm?”

“I used to think about you when I jerked off,” Ryan blurts out. “Like… kind of a lot? In high school.”

He pauses. “And, uh... and in college too.”

Patrice flushes at that. “Oh.”

“Should I not have said that?” Ryan worries. 

“No, it’s okay,” Patrice says. It is, mostly, but suddenly there’s a whole lot that Patrice needs to live up to and he isn’t sure that the added pressure is going to be a positive force on this arrangement. He tries to imagine what it must be like to have sex with someone he idolized growing up, then quickly comes to the conclusion that he never wants to think of Joe Sakic in that way ever again. 

Ryan’s face goes slack in relief. “Good. I do want to do this. _Very_ much so.”

If it works for Ryan, Patrice won’t pass judgement. 

They do have to actually start somewhere if they’re going to do this, though, so Patrice takes it into his own hands. He cups a hand around the back of Ryan’s neck and presses their lips together. He moves gently, starting cautiously in an effort to not overwhelm Ryan or scare him off. Ryan, to his credit, immediately opens up to Patrice and kisses him back. He’s hesitant at first, but he’s a good kisser. He parts his lips when Patrice deepens the kiss like it comes naturally. Things get desperate quickly; Ryan makes a muffled noise and starts grabbing at Patrice’s shoulders, his blunt nails catching on the seams of Patrice’s shirt. 

Patrice guides Ryan onto the bed. They break apart briefly as Ryan settles onto his back, and Patrice takes that moment to notice that Ryan is already mostly hard. 

It’s flattering, but Patrice supposes that he shouldn’t take too much credit. The kid is only twenty-one, after all. 

Patrice runs his fingers over the zipper of Ryan’s pants as he continues to kiss him, and Ryan moans around Patrice’s tongue. He’s so _easy_ for it. He takes everything that Patrice gives him, offers himself up absolutely, an oblation laid out on the ugly hotel duvet. 

It’s troubling, knowing how much Ryan will let him do.

Patrice doesn’t let it get much farther than that. Not after that realization. He doesn’t want to let Ryan get ahead of himself, wants him to think about what he really wants. It’s Patrice’s job, after all, to be the _responsible_ one. The one who has to make these decisions.

Patrice isn’t in his jersey but his _A_ might as well be branded into his skin. 

It takes less than a minute after Patrice gets his hand in Ryan’s pants for him to come, his head thrown back on the pillow, eyes closed and gasping.

Patrice takes an only moderately uncomfortable walk to the bathroom to wash his hands after letting Ryan get through the aftershocks. He’s only half-hard; it still feels like they’ve barely started. He isn’t so hair-trigger anymore. It’s almost as if he’s getting _old_.

He grabs a tissue box and heads back to the bed. Ryan is still on his back, chest rising and falling a bit too fast. He must feel pretty gross with the mess drying in his boxers, but he doesn’t seem to have much interest in remedying that fact until Patrice pushes the tissues into his hand.

The room is lit only by one of the small lamps on the desk by the window. Patrice hangs back and watches Ryan from the armchair near the door, having to squint in the semi-darkness. He tries to gauge where to go from here. Admittedly, he hasn’t done this in a long time, not with a teammate at least. There’s no unfamiliarity to fall back on. He knows Ryan too well, recognizes the methodical way he’s cleaning up the aftermath just like he tapes his sticks or laces his skates. He’s too accustomed to the curve of his shoulders and the lines of his hands to let the night fade in his mind until it’s only a distant memory. The benefit of one-night stands, of dispassionate and uninvolved hookups, is that their faces aren’t familiar enough to stick in one’s mind for too long. 

Ryan, though, Ryan _sticks_. 

“Let me suck you off,” Ryan pleads, waking Patrice up from his thoughts. 

His eyes are still bright and wanting. He’s done a half-decent job of making himself look presentable, but his tie is still so loose and crooked that it’s almost a lost cause and there’s a spot that looks a lot like a cum stain on the hem of his shirt. 

“Okay,” Patrice breathes.

As it turns out, Ryan is _very_ good with his mouth. It's practiced, for sure, but there's just enough desperation to make it obvious exactly what type of situation this is. Ryan doesn’t seem to be very familiar with being given the reins when he’s on his knees.

“You could, like, pull my hair or something,” he says, pulling off with a wet noise. “Or do whatever. I can take it.”

Patrice doesn’t move his hands from the arms of the chair but he gives Ryan a hum of encouragement. He wonders, somewhere in the back of his mind, who else has had Ryan like this. He wonders who _did_ pull Ryan’s hair. Who made him _take it_. When Ryan takes Patrice a bit too deep and has to pull off to cough and catch his breath, Patrice runs a thumb along Ryan’s jawline and bites his tongue to keep a stream of affection from coming out of his mouth.

It takes a bit longer than Patrice would like for him to come, but it’s good. Ryan knows exactly how tight to keep his fist and how long to keep going until the aftershocks become too much. He closes his eyes and smiles contentedly with his pink, spit-slick lips when Patrice runs a gentle hand through his hair.

“That was good, Ryan,” Patrice says. He hopes it sounds genuine, because it _is_. As much as reassurance is a necessity, especially for a teammate and especially for a rookie, Patrice is also just being honest. “I liked that.”

Ryan _shudders_ at the praise. He’s still on the floor, resting his cheek on Patrice’s knee. 

Patrice feels another rush of affection so strong it makes his head spin.

It takes a while to get Ryan up and looking presentable enough to leave the room and face the outside world. Patrice doesn’t mind. Aftercare is calming for him, similar to picking the team up after a bad loss or settling the rookies down after a tough practice. 

Not that he thinks it’s particularly healthy how often he compares his sex life to his job. _That_ is a problem for another day.

Before Ryan leaves, Patrice clears his throat.

“I’m not going to tell you that you can’t tell your roommate where you were,” he says. “But I’d just… be careful. Is all.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry, Bergy,” Ryan says with a crooked smile. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

Then he steps out into the hallway and closes the door behind him, and Patrice is left feeling vaguely like he was just picked up in a tornado and deposited somewhere unfamiliar. 

 

///

 

It doesn’t happen again until, in the aftermath of a tense loss in Winnipeg (in which Ryan scores _again_ ), Ryan follows Patrice not unlike a lost puppy back to his hotel room. They skip the formalities this time. Patrice loses his tie and jacket somewhere between the door and the bed without remembering how, and Ryan is squirming out of his dress pants before Patrice has taken a breath. 

Things keep moving quickly like that. One second they’re struggling with zippers and pant legs caught around ankles, and then the next second Patrice is between Ryan’s knees giving an only half-decent blowjob. The position is making his back hurt, which is yet another unwelcome reminder of his age. 

Patrice is just starting to get into a rhythm when Ryan suddenly tenses up and makes an attempt to squirm away.

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on,” Ryan gasps.

Patrice immediately pulls off. “What’s wrong?”

Ryan is breathing heavily and his face is blotchy and red. “I’m gonna come, like, way too soon if you keep doing that.”

Patrice finds himself feeling flattered again, considering they’ve barely started. Everything with Ryan runs at at a thousand miles per hour, but for a moment, as Ryan finds his breath, it slows down enough for Patrice’s thoughts to catch up to him. 

They’re in a hotel. In _Winnipeg_ (which, though Patrice is sure the people are lovely, is possibly the least-sexy NHL city he can think of). They have an important divisional game in less than forty-eight hours. Patrice has now hooked up with Ryan twice in one road trip, and they still haven’t really talked about it. 

Ryan is looking at him with such intensity that Patrice feels his ears heat up.

“What do you want me to do?” Patrice asks. 

“Y-you could, uh…” Ryan struggles. “I...”

Patrice takes pity on him. “You want me to fuck you?”

Ryan makes a pathetic noise. “ _Yeah_.”

Patrice can feel the _want_ radiating off of Ryan. It’s hot and heady and it feels like there isn’t enough air in the room, making Patrice go lightheaded. 

“There’s, um… _stuff_ in my bag,” Ryan mumbles. “I left it by the door.”

The fact that Ryan is naked and spread out underneath Patrice but apparently can’t bear to say the word _condom_ is oddly cute. Patrice gets up and fetches the so-called _stuff_ in favor of teasing him about it. 

Ryan is as good at getting fingered as he is at everything else, apparently. He’s on his back, his legs up and bent so that his knees are near his shoulders, letting out small sounds with every exhale. He has his arms hooked around his thighs to keep himself in position. Patrice is almost _too_ careful, and he keeps going until Ryan writhes and tells him to _please hurry up_.

A long, wounded noise escapes Ryan’s throat when Patrice finally slides into him. It’s immediately so intense that it’s dizzying, not unlike the feeling after riding a roller coaster too many times in a short span and still being able to feel the movement of the car even when you’re standing on solid ground. Ryan is tight and hot and every place that his skin touches Patrice’s makes it feel like there’s a current running between them.

Patrice gets into a rhythm quickly. Ryan is moaning loudly enough that it probably cuts right through the hotel walls, his ankles bobbing with each thrust. His dick lies hard and neglected against his stomach. 

Patrice loses track of time at some point. He lets Ryan consume him, or maybe it’s the other way around, losing himself in the heat of his body and the sounds he’s making. 

Patrice can feel it when Ryan comes untouched, clenching around Patrice and letting out a sob. 

Patrice finishes soon after, sweat beading on his forehead and stinging his eyes. He lets himself recover for a moment, still holding himself up enough so he isn’t resting his _entire_ weight on Ryan, then reluctantly gets up despite his joints screaming at him. Ryan still looks a bit dazed and hasn’t moved aside from stretching his legs out. 

It isn’t until Patrice grabs a handful of tissues from the box on the bedside table and starts to wipe off Ryan’s stomach that Ryan stirs and starts to sit up, blinking a few times and shaking his head as if to wake himself. He makes a weak attempt to help Patrice clean up but really only hinders him. Still, the effort is appreciated. 

Patrice heads to the bathroom after, washing his hands and wiping the sweat from his face with a washcloth. He still feels like his brain is catching up to everything he’d just done. When he looks in the mirror, he’s met with disheveled hair and bags under his eyes and a few red lines on his shoulders that Ryan must have left with his fingernails. 

Ryan is curled up on top of the comforter of one of the beds clad only in his boxers when Patrice returns from the bathroom. He watches Patrice through half-lidded eyes. 

Patrice shouldn’t let him stay. He _knows_ he shouldn’t, knows the risk that comes with it. 

Patrice sees Ryan’s suit crumpled on the floor. He could pick it up, dust it off, give it to Ryan as a way to kindly suggest that he sleep in his own hotel room with someone his own age (Sean, maybe? Jake? Patrice has lost track of the rookie room assignments) in the other bed instead of someone eleven years his senior. 

Instead, he pulls a faded t-shirt and a pair of sleep pants out of his luggage and tosses them on the bed next to Ryan. Ryan sits up and flicks his gaze back and forth between Patrice and the clothes.

“Are these…” he starts, but cuts himself off. The look in his eyes is hopeful.

“You’d better get some sleep,” Patrice says. “We’re traveling tomorrow.”

Ryan lets his face break into a smile for a moment, then quickly looks down at the floor. His hair is sticking up all over the place and his cheeks are still flushed and it makes Patrice’s chest feel tight. 

He hopes he doesn’t regret this. 

 

///

 

Patrice is two songs into his aggressive, post-loss playlist on the plane when Brad appears in the aisle looking perturbed. Patrice takes out his earbuds and moves his bag off of the seat next to him.

“Did I really hear what I thought I heard last night?” Brad asks the second he sits down. 

_Oh_. 

Patrice’s cheeks flush. “Sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize to me,” Brad says. “I'm just surprised. Thought you didn't really go for teammates anymore.”

Patrice rubs his eyes and groans. “I don't, that's the issue.”

Everyone seated near them is asleep and/or has headphones in, so Patrice isn’t too worried about being overheard, but he still looks around for Ryan. He spots him about five rows down, holding playing cards and laughing at something that Jake is saying. He looks unburdened by worry. Patrice, meanwhile, feels like a bowling ball is sitting on his chest.

The thing is, it shouldn’t be a problem. Hookups happen all the time, and common courtesy is to just pretend that you don’t notice anything even when you do. Patrice kept it to himself when he noticed the beard burn on Matt’s neck at practice in Tampa. He smiled politely and kept walking when he was out in the hotel hallway on his way to get ice just past midnight in Dallas and saw Brandon stumbling out of Charlie’s room with his shirt buttoned unevenly. 

If Brad is concerned enough to bring this up, though, it’s definitely a big deal.

“So, what are you worried about?” Brad asks.

“I guess I think I might be leading him on, in a way,” Patrice says. “Like I’m letting him get in way too deep and soon I’m gonna have to throw him a life raft and hope he saves himself.”

Then, because Brad is his best friend and he can’t bear to lie to him, he adds: “He stayed the night.”

Brad’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“He was gone when I woke up,” Patrice continues, “but I gave him my shirt, and... “

He lets the sentence hang unfinished in the air. Brad narrows his eyes.

Patrice lets out a sigh. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“It’s kind of easy to fall in love with you,” Brad says. “I don’t blame the kid for catching some feelings.”

It’s matter-of-fact, no bullshit just like Brad always is, but it takes the air right out of Patrice’s lungs. 

Brad follows up the statement by punching Patrice a little too hard on the shoulder, not letting him dwell on it for too long. “Don’t get a big head about it, though. You’re not _that_ great.”

It breaks the tension just enough to get Patrice to laugh.

 

///

 

Ryan scores again against Florida. 

The team’s in _first_ , sitting pretty on top of the division for at least a little bit. They lose in overtime to Philly the next day, but they have games in hand and the whole team is starting to get antsy in anticipation of the playoffs. Brandon and Riley’s injures take some air out of the locker room, though, and Patrice is still on edge when Ryan shows up to his room the night before the game in Tampa on Tuesday.

Ryan ends up on his knees, as if in prayer, but his hands are fisted in the sheets on either side of Patrice’s hips instead of clasped and his lips are wrapped around Patrice’s cock instead of forming words. The silver cross on the chain around his neck keeps catching the light. 

They keep things short. It’s the night before a game, after all; a game with a _lot_ of implications for the playoff picture. It’s going to require everyone’s full focus and energy. Ryan makes it easier by coming in about thirty seconds once Patrice gets a hand on him. He looks a bit embarrassed afterwards, heading off to the bathroom before Patrice can reassure him. 

As he picks up the shed articles of clothing from the floor, Patrice keeps thinking back to what Brad said on the plane. 

_It’s kind of easy to fall in love with you._

The problem is, Ryan treats Patrice like he hung the moon and stars, his devotion obvious in his awed words and reverential gaze. Even in the dim light of random hotel rooms in random cities, he lets his feelings show all over his face. In the naiveté of his youth he treats every word that graces Patrice’s lips as gospel. He trusts him, unwavering and unquestioning and _vulnerable_.

Even for all of the mentions of his alleged sainthood, Patrice can't bear being worshiped. He needs to do something about this eventually no matter how unpleasant it will inevitably be. 

Ryan appears in the door of the bathroom, stretching his arms above his head. “Do you think I could turn the heat down a little? Feels like an oven in here.”

He heads over as if to sit on one of the beds, but he stops and looks over when Patrice doesn’t respond for a few moments.

“You shouldn’t sleep here,” Patrice says. There’s no way to soften the blow, no point in dressing up his words as if Ryan won’t immediately pick up on the underlying meaning. He’s a smart kid. 

Still, the expression on Ryan’s face makes Patrice almost wish he’d tried. 

Ryan looks like he’s been slapped. He blinks a few times, mouth hanging open, the hurt so obvious on his face it could have been written there in permanent marker. 

“We have a game tomorrow,” Patrice says, as if that will help anything. 

Ryan doesn’t reply, just gets up and makes a beeline for the armchair where Patrice had piled their clothes. He doesn’t look at Patrice while he struggles to get his suit back on. Patrice racks his brain for anything else to say, anything to express to Ryan that he’s sorry about the circumstances without actually having to say those words and admit his wrongdoing to a kid who seems to think Patrice is faultless. 

When Ryan leaves, looking small and sad in his rumpled suit, Patrice has made himself worry so much that he has half a mind to chase after him. 

The room feels dark and cold and empty. One of Ryan’s socks is left forgotten, half-underneath one of the beds, and most nights that wouldn’t mean anything but tonight Patrice can’t bear the sight of it. 

 

///

 

The team ends up losing three of their last four games of the season, and the number one seed slips through their fingers and settles right in Tampa’s lap.

Ryan doesn’t _avoid_ Patrice, but he certainly doesn’t make an effort to be around him more than necessary. Patrice notices it immediately. He had certainly expected Ryan to treat him differently after what happened, of course, but it doesn’t make it any easier when it starts. It stays in the back of his mind even when he turns all of his attention to the playoffs. 

Ryan is scratched in game one, and he only plays nine minutes in game two. 

He still hugs Patrice in the locker room, though. They’re up two to nothing in the series and Ryan is smiling so widely that his cheeks dimple. Brad flashes a grin from across the room.

Patrice is almost able to pretend that everything’s okay.

 

///

 

They lose game three in Toronto. 

Patrice is just starting to settle into bed, ready to sleep off the loss, when there’s a soft knock on the door of his room.

Patrice opens it and is met with a pair of sad brown eyes. His heart immediately drops to his feet.

Ryan seems self-conscious. “Um… can I come in?”

Patrice lets him, but his eyebrows are furrowed. He sits on the armchair in the corner and gestures for Ryan to sit on the bed.

“I thought we should talk,” Ryan says. 

He’s right, they absolutely should, but Patrice is surprised that Ryan has the maturity to not only acknowledge that but to actually approach Patrice about it. The timing could be better, but he understands Ryan’s mindset. Losses like the one they’d just had tend to make people reevaluate things. Patrice is in the mood for this talk, too.

Ryan immediately makes Patrice’s job harder by getting up and kissing him. 

It’s soft and hesitant, like Ryan is expecting Patrice to turn him away. It somehow just makes it harder for Patrice to do just that. 

“Ryan, we can't keep doing this,” Patrice says. “I'm always here for you, as a teammate and as your alternate captain and as a friend, but I can't…” 

He’s unsure of how to finish the sentence. 

“I don't know what to do,” Ryan says. His eyes are wet. “I don't know how I'm supposed to… to _not_ want this. I do want it. I want you.”

Patrice’s chest tightens. 

“You’re young, Ryan,” he says. “You have a lot of time to figure out who you are and what you want.”

Ryan sniffles. “I already know what I want.”

It’s such a painfully twenty-one-year-old thing to say. Patrice is _so_ aware of the age difference, of the experience difference between them. He’s never been at a loss for words in a situation like this before but he can’t think of anything he could say that would make it better.

“Can I just stay here for a little bit?” Ryan asks. “Just until you’re ready to sleep. I... don’t want to be alone right now.”

 _Right_. Patrice forgot that Ryan isn’t rooming with anyone right now. It isn’t an unreasonable request from a rookie only a handful of weeks removed from playing in college. 

Patrice nods. He doesn’t miss the relief that crosses Ryan’s face.

 

///

 

Patrice leaves his heart and soul at center ice at Amalie. 

After all of the time he’d spent, all of the hours he’d put in, it only takes sixty minutes to watch the season slip away. It isn’t any easier than the first time.

In the locker room after the game, Patrice pushes his own feelings out of his mind for the moment and switches his focus to his teammates. He and Zdeno make sure everyone is spoken to; just a few sentences, candid and sympathetic. The rookies get extra attention. Some guys, like Kretch and Backs and Adam, who have been around a while, just get a solemn nod and a mutual understanding that _this sucks but it happens_.

Ryan looks miserable when Patrice finally approaches him. He tries to force a smile; it isn’t even slightly convincing, but Patrice appreciates the effort.

“Head up, kid,” Patrice says. “You’re a special player. We’ll get them next year, we...”

The _Cheering Up Dejected Rookies_ script rarely fails him, but his sentences keep faltering when he meets Ryan’s eyes. He gives up halfway through. It’s too much to pretend that nothing had happened between them, and Ryan has never stopped looking at him like he looked at him that first day, after his first goal, in the middle of a hectic locker room.

Patrice knows what it’s like to be loved so much it doesn’t feel like what he gives back is enough. 

By a city, by a team, by a best friend. By a kid with kind, brown eyes and a wicked shot, sitting dejectedly in a stall in the visiting locker room in Tampa. 

As much as it’s idealized, it’s hard to be loved like that. 

“I’m sorry, Ryan,” Patrice says. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

Ryan doesn’t vocalize a reply, but the heaviness of his gaze and the slight quiver of his lip says plenty. He knows it isn’t about the game. It isn’t about the season. It isn’t about the lack of production, or about how much ice time he got. 

But Patrice is sorry about all of that, too.

Even if it never feels sufficient, he’ll keep doing it. He’ll keep skating until his legs won’t let him, keep leading a team until they’ve passed him by, keep carrying the hopes of a city until they settle on someone else’s shoulders. 

And in return, he’ll be loved.

He can’t ask for anything more, really.

 

///


	2. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so i published this fic about two months ago, and then ryan got traded recently :( 
> 
> i thought i'd add a little epilogue to conclude this rather heartbreaking saga. i'm gonna miss you ryan

Patrice finds out about the trade a few hours before the game in Vegas.

He isn’t sure if it’s better or worse that Ryan is in Providence, over two thousand miles away, three hours ahead ahead in time. On one hand, Patrice doesn’t have to _see_ his reaction. He can only imagine it: the realization, the pain, the slow death of a childhood dream. On the other hand, imagining it might even be worse. 

Patrice has seen a lot of guys get traded over the years. It’s always difficult, but some departures are harder than others, fraught with bitterness and dissension on both sides. Patrice’s position as an alternate captain makes him feel a certain level of responsibility. 

It isn’t often that Patrice feels such acute guilt, but in this circumstance, it’s there. He doesn’t think that it’s his _fault_ , but some small part of his brain keeps asking what he could have done differently. Maybe he could have said no that night in the locker room. If he had recognized the extent of Ryan’s feelings earlier, he could have stopped it from going too far. 

He pulls his phone out and sends a simple text. It’s just a few sentences, expressing his sympathy and his optimism for Ryan’s future. He makes sure to keep it positive without seeming insincere. This is something he does for everyone who leaves the team, whether they’ve been a Bruin for a few months or for years, so it’s easy enough to keep it surface-level. Polite, not vulnerable.

He texts Coyle right after. 

 

///

 

When Patrice checks his phone after the game, a shootout win, Ryan hasn’t texted him back. It still hasn’t been very long, though. He decides to give it a while longer. 

The next day comes and goes, but Ryan never sends anything back. Coyle sends Patrice a long text thanking him for reaching out and expressing excitement to play for the Bruins. _A childhood dream_ , he calls it, and Patrice can’t help the fact that it makes him wince. It’s too similar to what Ryan said less than a year earlier. 

Patrice approaches Zdeno at their next practice in St. Louis. He doesn’t want to sound neurotic, but he can’t think of any time that a player has shut him out like this after a trade. 

“Did you talk to Ryan?” Patrice asks. 

Zdeno nods. “Yes, we spoke on the phone.”

It hurts. Patrice doesn’t lie to himself and pretend that it doesn’t. He knows the circumstances are… _different_ , but that doesn’t make it easier.

Ryan’s silence seems so much louder, after that. 

 

///

 

They have a game in Minnesota in April, the second-to-last game of the season. Ryan has had a good year all things considered, cooling off after a hot streak in his first few games, but good nonetheless. He seems happy. Patrice doesn’t watch all of his post-game interviews, or anything, but he sees enough. 

He isn’t expecting the text that’s awaiting him after practice the day before the game.

_want to talk?_

It’s from Ryan.

Patrice does. He says so.

Ryan asks him where, which seems odd considering that Patrice is the one out of his element now, in a city that he doesn’t know and that doesn’t know him.

_a restaurant_ , Patrice types. A neutral location, he thinks, will be better for this sort of talk. _you choose which one_. 

Ryan sends him an address and tells him to meet him there at eight that night. 

 

///

 

Ryan is seated at a booth in the back of the restaurant when Patrice arrives. He gives a nod of acknowledgement, then gestures for Patrice to sit down.

Neither of them says anything at first besides a brief greeting. A waitress comes over and fills their glasses with water. She seems to know Ryan, smiling at him and asking how he’s doing, and Patrice figures that this must be a place that Ryan frequents. It’s nice to see him settling down a bit. 

Patrice asks a few questions about the season, hoping that talking about hockey will break up the tension. They discuss the playoffs, their hopes for their respective teams, and their plans for the offseason. Ryan even smiles a few times. They each order a glass of wine and a small entree, more due to obligation than anything else. Eventually, they both come to the realization that there’s something else that needs to be resolved.

“I wish you had talked to me earlier,” Patrice says finally. There’s no reason to pull punches.

Ryan lets out a laugh, flat and humorless, almost defensive. “And said what? That I was sorry and that I’d miss you and I wish it went differently? You knew that already. Saying it wouldn’t have made it hurt any less.”

He’s right, in a way, but there’s a bitterness to the way he says it that worries Patrice. 

“You talked to Z,” Patrice says. “And Bruce.”

Ryan frowns. “Yeah, but…”

He searches for the right words to say. Patrice takes a sip of wine.

“You’re different,” Ryan says. “You’ve always been different.”

It takes Patrice off guard. He struggles to swallow and coughs into his sleeve. 

“But I _am_ sorry,” Ryan adds, quieter. 

Patrice sighs. “ _I’m_ sorry, Ryan. I shouldn’t have let this happen. We should have had this talk a lot earlier, definitely before the trade.”

“I know,” Ryan says. He still seems withdrawn. “It just hurt, a lot. Every second I spent with you made it worse. That wasn’t your fault, but… that’s how it was.”

Patrice gets a bit of relief from that. Ryan doesn’t blame Patrice, and though that doesn’t change what happened, it makes it easier to cope with. 

“I think I could have done something different.” Patrice lets himself be honest. “I know that I hurt you, the fact that it wasn’t my intention doesn’t matter at this point.”

Ryan shakes his head. He seems to relax finally, his last wall of self-defense coming down. “I would have had the same feelings either way. I had to deal with that on my own. I just… I hope you know that I wasn’t mad at you. I had to get myself out of that cycle, letting those feelings build up. I couldn’t just keep loving you like that.”

It’s the first time that Ryan has said that word, acknowledged the extent of his feelings. It isn’t like Patrice didn’t know, but it still feels like something changes when Ryan says it out loud. It hits him even harder than what Brad told him during a plane ride that felt like ages ago.

They sit in silence for a few moments, picking at their plates of food and nursing their glasses of wine. 

“I’m really glad you’re doing well now, Ryan,” Patrice says.

Ryan smiles, and it’s entirely genuine this time. 

They finish their meals and hand the waitress their credit cards. It’s late, the moon visible through the large windows near the front of the restaurant, and Patrice yawns in the middle of thanking the waitress when she hands him a pen and his receipt. 

Ryan finishes signing his check and stands up. He doesn’t seem so vulnerable when he looks at Patrice, like he used to. His shoulders aren’t hunched and his chin is raised.

“You know I can’t talk to you like this again,” Ryan says. There’s a maturity to the statement that Patrice hadn’t expected. “It wouldn’t be good for either of us.”

“Certainly,” Patrice replies. “But I hope we do see each other again. Off the ice.”

Ryan smiles. “Yeah. Of course.”

Despite the promise, there’s a finality to the end of the conversation. Ryan doesn’t linger. When he walks away, he doesn’t look back. He doesn't wish Patrice luck in the game tomorrow. 

They root against each other, now. It isn't as if they want each other to _fail_ , but they're opponents just the same.

Patrice stays seated for a while longer. He finds himself staring at Ryan’s signature on the receipt at the edge of the table. This isn’t supposed to be so hard for him; he isn’t supposed to be the one feeling left behind. It isn’t as if he knows how Ryan is really taking it, beneath his mature and restrained exterior, but if it’s enough to at least act like he’s moved on then something has clearly changed. 

If Patrice is to be honest with himself, he doesn’t understand how Ryan feels. He doesn’t know what it feels like to love something or someone that he shouldn’t. As cliche as it is, maybe hockey is the only thing besides his family that he’s ever loved unconditionally. Enough to dedicate his life to it, put everything he has into it, never really _needing_ anything in return.

It’s still different, though. Hockey will always love him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm in my feelings
> 
> leave me a comment and let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> really poured my feelings into this huh
> 
>  
> 
> [kuralies.tumblr.com](http://www.kuralies.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> let me know what you think! give me some requests! just say hi!


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